


Owning Light

by Maat (maat_seshat)



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-10
Updated: 2007-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-25 03:24:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1628945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maat_seshat/pseuds/Maat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of the Fall of Doriath. Everyone kills for the Silmaril.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Owning Light

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Stultiloquentia and Karihan for their help and encouragement.
> 
> Written for Sealgirl

 

 

The Silmaril gleamed white-hot in the dark of the forge. Thingol watched it as it passed from workbench to Dwarvish hand, tracking the light that burned through their fingers and ignoring the resentment in their dark eyes as they glanced at him before putting the jewel down and continuing their work. They heated gold to a red glow and twisted it into new shapes to frame his Silmaril. The price for the death of his foster-son and that for the loss of his daughter blended forever. He had already paid in blood and grief.

The dark stone walls swallowed the light. Here alone Menegroth closed in upon him and made him yearn for the woodland clearings outside his gates. Here alone, amidst the rasp of Dwarven voices that made the tongue of his people unlovely, he questioned the choice that kept him in this flawed land. Countless days had he watched and waited alone. Melian had refused to descend, had begged him to fling away the Nauglamír, tainted as it was by Túrin's death and Morgoth's schemes. When he drew forth the Silmaril from his inmost treasury, she ceased to beg. Instead, she turned away, tears in her eyes, and spoke no more. But even the Tree-light reflected in her face and glinting in her tears could not match the radiance trapped within the Silmaril. He grew weary of Beleriand, burned by the Sun, that mockery of the Two Trees. Their light shone only from the Silmaril now, and everything touched seemed returned to its true state, uncorrupted by Morgoth. If the Valar had forsaken his kingdom, he would make of his kingdom a Valinor.

The clang of hammer hitting axe shivered through his bones as a few Dwarves repaired their weapons. Most were clustered around the Nauglamír, fiddling with it as greedy children would a toy. They milled about, shadows in the greater gloom, except those closest to the Silmaril, whose alien faces were thrown into sharp relief by a light too beautiful for their darkness. Thingol saw them in that merciless light and knew that they wanted it. They had demanded payment in gold, as they did every time they came to work in his kingdom, and he had promised it, but no gold would be enough, unless it were the light-touched gold of the Nauglamír. These playthings of Aulë believed they could take from him the light of the Two Trees, they who had never seen the Trees in their flowering. They did not know the power of the light they sought to steal.

Thingol saw the chief craftsman lay his tools aside and lift the Nauglamír. The Silmaril gleamed at its center, surrounded by gems that caught its light and gave it back in darker hues: sapphire, ruby, emerald. The Dwarf approached, bearing the necklace before him, and Thingol reached for it.

The Dwarf pulled back. "By what right does the Elvenking lay claim to the Nauglamír, that was made by our fathers for Finrod Felagund who is dead? It has come to him but by the hand of Húrin the Man of Dor-lómin, who took it as a thief out of the darkness of Nargothrond." Triumph glittered in his dark eyes as he cradled the Silmaril against his coarse, sooty tunic.

Thingol rose. "How do ye of uncouth race dare to demand aught of me, Elu Thingol, Lord of Beleriand, whose life began by the waters of Cuiviénen years uncounted ere the fathers of the stunted people awoke?" He stepped forward, glaring down upon the Dwarf before him, and watched with satisfaction as he retreated. "Flawed creatures, forced upon Ilúvatar All-Father by the foolish meddling of Aulë, begone. Ye forfeit any debt owed ye for this work. Depart unrequited, save with your lives." He reached for the Nauglamír, no longer hearing the words he spoke in his wrath. They did not go. His fingers touched the Silmaril, and he saw the Dwarf's hand move. The knife flashed silver in the corner of his eye, and Thingol felt it bite into his throat. Blood splashed, and his vision darkened until he could see only the jewel in his hands. Even now, even covered in his blood, the Silmaril did not shine metal-red. It shone white.

***

The Silmaril glittered through the cracks in the door to the treasury wherein it lay, its light colored by the gems surrounding it. A ruby glint touched Naugladur's hand as he raised his hammer against the Elf in his path. "You will go," he growled. "Your king stole the greatest work of my people, and your warriors slew them. I claim this treasure as weregild; I have paid in blood and grief."

The Elf lifted an axe gleaming silver, his face grim. "Your people slew my king, and I repaid them with destruction. You, lord of stunted folk, lord of betrayers, you shall have nothing from these caves." He stepped forward and swung.

Naugladur met his axe with a ringing clash. "Murderers deserve no fair combat," he said, then bellowed "Take him!"

Around him, his people rushed forward, and the Elf's bright blade flashed red with their blood. One dropped, then another, and as the third fell, blood gurgling in his mouth, Naugladur swung. The Elf knocked his hammer aside and dodged another's blow, axe sliding out once more to bloody itself in a Dwarf's throat. Naugladur swung again, and this time, when the Elf matched him, he could not evade another's sword thrust. The Nogrod steel sliced into his gut, and the stench of death filled the air. The Elf stumbled, but that axe glittered through the air once more, taking off his killer's head, before he fell to the ground.

Vision dark with fury, Naugladur lifted his hammer for the final blow. "Fool, I name ye," the Elf choked. "Ye cannot see what hangs over your own head." Naugladur brought his hammer down and blood splashed from the Elf's skull as he crushed it.

Naugladur waved at the door and shouted, "The treasure is ours. Bring me the Necklace of our Fathers!" Stepping aside to wipe the blood from his hands, that it might not impede his grip, he watched his people rush towards the treasury. They fell upon the thick wood, hacking with war-axes and beating with war-hammers, but the door did not move. A metallic screech echoed through the hall, and he flinched. The sound came again, and again, and the furious pounding of hammer against wood could not drown it out. Then the metal-screech changed, halfway through, to the sound of iron clattering against stone, and the door swung open to reveal blinding light. "Bring me the Nauglamír," he shouted again as bodies filled the doorway and blocked the light. Finally his son struggled back to him with the necklace.

"Here, Father," he said, gazing upon the shining crystal in his arms. Naugladur snatched it up and fastened it about his neck.

"Come," he ordered, brandishing his hammer. "Come, all of you. Take what treasure you wish, but there are more Elves yet and a long march home." Slowly, his people returned, arms laden with gold and gems which they dropped into packs strapped on their backs. When at last they were assembled, he led them once more into the caves in search of foes.

The rest of the attack passed. Always he felt the Silmaril burning through his coat of mail and shining in his eyes, and he could not muster any care for the straggling Elves whom his people cut down on their way out. At last Menegroth's folk were dead, finished, and the bloodprice complete. At last they reached the Stone Ford of the river Gelion, and Naugladur could see the Dwarf-road stretching forward to bring him home.

Then, as he climbed the banks of Gelion, light-dazzled eyes focused upon the road, the arrow shafts fell and the war-horns blew. He fell to the ground and wrenched forth his hammer. Gasping, he forced himself to his feet. "In the trees!" he pointed. "They are within the trees!" He charged and felt his people running beside him, being cut down like animals. Still they ran. At last, mere strides from the treeline, the shafts stopped. He swung, strong with rage, and cut down the Elf before him, barely feeling the resistance as the Elf tried to block him with a light sword. He looked about him wildly, seeking another enemy, and a Man stepped before him.

The Man's eyes were cold, as cold as the light glittering off his sword, and he said nothing as he fought. Naugladur felt the Nauglamír growing heavier about his neck and knew that he would lose this battle. When the final blow came, the same gut-stroke that had felled the Elf before the treasury, Naugladur felt no surprise. He knew now what hung over his head. "Stained with blood of Elven and Khazad lord, death shall follow this treasure so long as it remain in Arda," he cursed, and knew he spoke true, "and a like fate shall every part and portion share with the whole." He gazed upon the Silmaril, still beautiful despite its doom. The blade descended once more.

***

The Silmaril shone, undimmed by the blood around it. Beren knelt, ignoring the dying noise of battle around him. His people would prevail, he knew. Slowly, he unclasped the Nauglamír from the collar of the dead Lord of Nogrod, and felt for a moment the shadow of his lost hand, prying this Silmaril from Morgoth's iron crown. He bore the necklace to the river, and the Gelion ran red with the blood washed from it. Beren heard his son approach. He looked up to see a crimson light on Dior's face, the light of the Silmaril filtered by the bloody waters. He lifted the necklace from the river, and watched the light change to a rainbow of hues, purest white the strongest among them. "I won this for your mother," he said, and Dior nodded. Behind his son, Beren saw his people binding their wounds amidst a field of slain Dwarves. He clasped the Nauglamír about his neck and returned to them, bathed in the light of the Silmaril.

**Author's Note:**

> The Dwarves' words ("By what right...") and Thingol's first reply ("How do ye...") at the beginning are lifted directly from the Silmarillion (Of the Ruin of Doriath), and the dying Elf's words ("Ye cannot see...") are stolen from Melian's lines in The Lost Tales (The Nauglafring)


End file.
